


to make belief

by petroltogo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Interpretation of Mythology, Alternate Season 5 And Beyond, Alternate Universe, BAMF Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Has Powers, Don't copy to another site, Free Will VS. God's Plan, Gen, Gossip, Literally Everyone Fucks Up God's Plan, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Outsider, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Rumors, Unreliable Narrator, Work In Progress, especially Dean, pure self-indulgence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23066476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petroltogo/pseuds/petroltogo
Summary: "There’s just something about Dean Winchester."The one where Free Will is a wrinkle in the finely-woven tapestry of the universe and it matters both more and less than you might expect.[A truth so banal that even God forgot: You always pour more of yourself into your creation than you realize.]
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 37
Kudos: 200
Collections: Reread





	1. Part 0

{Now listen up, kiddos, because this is it, honest, the truth and nothing but the truth, unashamed and as clear-cut as it ever gets. So pay attention because this isn’t the kind of story you find in history books and legends retold a thousand times. This is the reality of what happened, told by those who witnessed it with their own eyes, even if they didn’t understand what they were seeing. And you won’t understand it either, not truly, if you don’t memorize these simple facts, the basic rules the universe is built on.

So shut your damn mouths and listen:

At the Beginning — not the starting point, don’t get those two confused. No one really knows when a story starts, when this story started, and people only care about such things once the events have long been set into motion and no one remembers what the world looked like before anymore. But that’s not the beginning I mean. I’m talking about the real, conscious Beginning of _everything_ , capital 'B' included — at the Beginning, there was no fate. There was no destiny.

There were only two things: God’s Plan and Free Will. An unmovable object and an unstoppable force. Meaning that the smart cookies among you, those who’ve been paying attention in their physics lessons, already know where this is gonna lead.

But we’ll get into the whole which-power-is-greater conundrum in a moment. Before we do, there’s one thing I need you all to keep in mind, one thing that you morons just can’t seem to get: God’s Plan came _first_.}

* * *

**0.**

"Who will take your place when you fade?" Death asks once, before Time is invented and the passage of being achieves a whole new, measurable meaning. Of course it’s Death who asks this. It’s a question no one else would dare to voice, least of all in His presence.

[No one else would say 'when' instead of 'if' in that matter-of-fact voice, acknowledging a foregone conclusion the entire world remains blind to. Has been blinded to.]

 ** _No one_**.

His answer is true, as honest as he knows how to be. A fact created eons ago, that remains just as valid now as it has always been, always will be. There’s no reason for lies and dishonesty, not between the two of them. He has willed it so and, as always, His will holds.

[And if the words are easier said, their weight easier shrugged off in the face of the one being He knows doesn’t care — _cannot_ care, and how can He fault Death for becoming the very thing He intended for Death to become? — He is the only one who will ever know.]

**_When the time comes, they will not need me anymore_** _._

His children. His soldiers. His plants. His creations. They grow, all of them, as He has once willed it to be. They continue to do so, continue to amaze Him, and already He rues the day where they will stop.

A day that will come, inevitable as the entire universe He has built — for He has willed it and so it shall come to pass.

Death laughs, a music without sound, a light extinguished that has never shone. "How? You create them to need you."

Death does not say 'us', for Death is not created to need anything, nor want or feel. It is, perhaps, the cruelest kindness He has ever given one of his creations and as per his nature, Death can neither appreciate nor resent his own existence.

 ** _Not forever_**.

A lie within a truth within a lie within a truth.

[This is, after all, what humanity will be made for. One day, they, all of His creations, will understand this. Embrace it. The humans will be the first, as is in their nature. But inevitably angels and demons alike will follow them on their path, whether they will realize it or not. Inexplicably drawn to the weakest link in the chain of the universe, the fascinatingly fallible, the unapologetically humane. They cannot help it, none of His children will.

All their disgust, their false superiority, their misguided hatred— He has seen it, He has built it and He cannot wait to watch it come to life. _Nothing_ will have the potential to unite angels and demons, deities and primordial forces like their shared obsession with humanity. And how can He blame them, find fault in their yearning, their fear, when He is the one who has willed it so?

It is in a demon’s nature to envy and desire humans, as it is an angel’s obligation to love and temptation to despise them. The very world is, will be centered on them, spun around them, with Earth — _humanity_ — at its focal point. With Heaven and Hell destined to circle them until the End of All, the pull of gravity as undeniable as it has been at the beginning of Creation.

Humanity will be His last challenge, His warning, His gift, His inevitability, His doom. He can hardly wait.]

"Need and want are two different things," Death comments. There is no judgement made — Death does not judge — but as with every truth spoken aloud, the words hold a weight all by themselves.

[It reads like a warning, addressed to the one in charge of creating the safety instructions in the first place, and, like all circular arguments, it gets lost within its turns without planting the seeds it’s meant to grow.]

 ** _They will outgrow me_** , He says, states, knows. And though He has not yet decided how He will feel about that, He smiles. There is a satisfaction in seeing a play through to the final round, in watching a meticulously prepared plan be set in motion.

Free Will.

His greatest creation. Woven so deeply into the fabric of humanity, the threads won’t ever — will always — be undone. A single irregularity in a flawless equation, designed to derail the algorithm, the program, the entire _system_.

And one day. One day.

[ ~~ ** _They will have to_**~~ , remains unsaid because this, at least, is a choice that has been made by Him for them, all of them. And there is a twisted irony in this mockery of goodwill somewhere, a logical fallacy the fabric of the universe yearns to correct, and it’s not the one you think it will be.]

"Will they?" Death asks without the faintest hint of curiosity in his voice. It is not doubt, for Death does not doubt, and if He wanted He could discern Death’s motivation in a heartbeat, so He doesn’t. That, after all, is the true beauty of His creations. Despite His might, despite His power and His will, their actions, their questions, their thoughts are their own.

Nevertheless if it had been someone, _anyone_ but Death — a being with no care, no true interest in life or creation, a being not meant to become more than the specter it governs over, a being cursed and freed and inevitable — He is having this conversation with—

[ _You teach the angels to love you_ , they might have said.

 _You teach the demons to hate you_ , they might have reminded.

 _You teach the humans to worship you_ , they might have warned.

 _You give them free will but no choice_ , they might have condemned.]

Of course, if it had been someone, anyone but Death, this conversation would never have happened at all.

 ** _They will_** , He states, proclaims, wills, and so they shall.

[ _This is your will, not theirs_ , Death deliberately doesn’t say. _Who will enforce it once you’re gone?_

If God is listening, He does not respond.]

* * *

{Because you see, kiddos, this is what it is, the fundamental truth that the world forgot, the single fact none of you seem to be able to wrap your empty heads around, the one thing it was always gonna come down to: In the Beginning, there was no fate, no destiny. There was only this: God’s Plan and Free Will.

 _And neither one meant a single thing_ _until others started to believe in them_.}


	2. Parts 1-5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It begins and ends with Dean.

**1.**

Never before has a righteous man shed blood in hell, it is said.

That is not to say that no righteous man has ever entered Hell, for indeed the righteous are no more or less tempted by blood and power and love than any other human. And if there motivations differ, that difference won’t matter in the end, not in the history books and certainly not to the hell hounds that inevitably come for them.

That is not to say that no righteous man has ever ended on the rack, the tattered and broken remains of a once pure soul unrecognizable against the black taint surrounding it, corrupting it, breaking it. Until all he, all _it_ knows is pain, so all-encompassing nothing may have ever, will ever exist beyond it.

That is not to say that no righteous man has ever taken up the knife, has ever given in, has cracked, broken, _shattered_. Has never risen again, a crumbled ruin of itself, beyond repair or salvation. Has never become what they once despised, never turned against their fellow souls and excelled as monsters in the pit.

That is not to say that no righteous man has ever carved up a soul inside out, has never taken it apart and crushed it into nothingness with cruel delight. For to say this would be an untenable lie, one even the lowest of demons must be aware of if they have retained any room for logical thought.

The right way, the only way to free Lucifer has been known for as long as the Light-Bringer has fallen. Some may have followed him out of fear or opportunism, but many — too many — have followed out of love. Lilith and Azrael are only two names in a long list of those loyal and desperate enough to set in motion a chain of events that will not end in anything for certain, except their own demise. And so, the kind and the righteous have been falling for as long as humanity has known evil.

Yet the first seal remains unbroken and so the only possible explanation is this: No righteous man has shed blood in hell, for everyone — everyone who matters — knows that this is what is needed to set Lucifer free.

{ _When a Righteous Man sheds blood in hell_ , it is said. Nowhere is it specified that just any righteous man will suffice. Only that there will be a Man who breaks the first seal and he will be Righteous.

~~And so perhaps there was never a way for anyone, be they demon, angel or more, to kickstart the apocalypse at any other point in time than precisely when it was meant to happen.~~

~~Would that comfort you?~~ }

 _Never before has a righteous man shed blood in hell_ , the demons whisper, gleefully, excited, foreboding. [ _and broken the first seal_ , is what they mean.]

Like most words uttered by a demon, they are no simple lie. They are no simple truth.

**2.**

Sammy is seven and his world is simple.

There’s Dean [ _big brother, warm, safe, always, there, home_ ].

There’s the Impala [ _Dean’s favorite place in the whole world, unbearably hot and stuffy on long summer days, uncomfortable, sweaty clothes sticking to his skin, Dean elbowing his side and sneaking him little soldier figurines_ ], the car Sammy spends the very most time in.

There’s Dad [ _Dean mumbling 'Sir', all serious and determined, Dean reaching for his knife, Dad's gun, Dean stepping between Sammy and the monsters prowling in cellars and dark spaces, Dean telling him bedtime stories until Dad gets back from work, Dean walking him to school and waiting for him when he’s finished, Dean helping him with his homework 'cause Dad’s busy_ ].

There’s Mom [ _Dean’s wistful voice, eyes soft as they pull Sammy closer to tell him another story Dad isn’t supposed to hear, Dean’s hands, warm and so very careful, as they caress the old pictures of smiling faces Sammy knows but doesn’t recognize_ ].

Sammy is seven and his world is simple. It begins and ends with Dean.

**3.**

Some days, most days, Jo hates Dean Winchester.

It’s nothing personal. Or so she tries to tell herself. Dean’s a nice guy, a good guy, and maybe that’s what makes it burn so much worse. If he was an unapologetic asshole. If he was a cold-hearted, calculating bastard. If he was batshit crazy — the way far too many hunters are, she’s seen enough of them, served enough of them, and maybe there are days where she wonders if those men and women aren’t much more responsible for her mother’s refusal to let her hunt than her dad’s death ever was — that would have made it easier to accept.

Because then it wouldn’t have been personal. Jo could’ve lived with that. She could’ve accepted that she miscalculated, misjudged Dean’s character and moved on with her life, determined to do better. It would’ve been her fault. Her mistake.

But it wasn’t.

She put her faith in Dean Winchester because he’s nice, because he’s kind, because he knows what he’s doing. [Because he looks at her like he sees her, really _sees_ her, and maybe that makes him the rarest kind of man she’s met yet.]

It gets her tied to a chair, threatened with rape and almost killed because Dean cannot, will not put her safety above his brother’s.

Not even when said brother is possessed by a demon. [ ~~What if Sam hadn’t been?~~ ]

 _A hunter should know better_ , is what the cynical, bitter part of her sneers. And hell, Dean does. Jo sees it in his eyes, that agony, that terrible choice nobody should be forced to make but the world somehow puts in front of people time and time again.

It’s that moment more than anything else, that truly confirms it for her: Dean Winchester is exactly the man she thought, knew, believed him to be. And Sam? Sam is his line in the sand.

[Jo could’ve told Bobby the moment Sam died that there is nothing Dean won’t do for his brother. She could’ve told Sam that there’s nothing Dean would put in front of him. ~~Not even his morals, his consciousness, his soul~~. But what good will the words of a mostly-stranger do, when everything Dean’s done up to this point hasn’t clued them in yet?]

Some days, Jo hates Dean Winchester because when his brother threatened her, Dean hesitated. He _stopped_ fighting [for her]. Because when she closes her eyes, sometimes she still dreams of Sam’s vicious whispers against her ears, of the _horrorconfusiondisbelief_ ** _resignation_** in Dean’s eyes.

It’s not fair. Jo doesn’t know what she’d do if she had to make the same choice, if she had to weight the life of her mother against someone, anyone else. But the world isn’t a fair place, hunters know that better than everyone.

On those days, Jo hates Dean Winchester because she trusted him to be better _and he failed_ [her].

[Most days, she hates Dean Winchester because she would, _will_ do it again.]

**4.**

Dean knows nightmares. More specifically, he knows _this_ nightmare.

No matter how many bodies they find, how many people they fail to save, how many monstrous acts they witness, there’s just something about this particular dream that makes it stand out. Even among all the blood, gore and horror, Dean’s mind has become over the years.

Maybe it’s because it’s one of the first Dean remembers having. The first, if he’s honest. Older even than the ones that end with his mother’s wide eyes and burning flames, though Dean has a hard time pinpointing how he can know for sure that he’s had this one first.

It’s not even a very scary one, is the thing.

_Dean!_

Dean winces.

Sometimes it’s Sammy’s voice. Sometimes it’s Dad. Sometimes it’s a stranger he ran into, their most recent motel manager, a witness on a case. Sometimes they’re angry or scared. [Those are the worst]. Sometimes they’re excited, eager.

_Dean! Dean!_

Dean turns on his heels, but the voice is everywhere. There’s nothing else there. Nowhere to go, to or from.

Dean’s not afraid. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Nothing that will hurt him. Not here. But there’s something wrong all the same. Dean can tell. He doesn’t know how he knows that, doesn’t know what it is, just knows it’s important.

_Dean!_

He won’t find them, Dean knows that. He never does. And he never forgets that he doesn’t find them. He never forgets that it’s all a dream.

[He never stops searching.]

_Dean!_

**5.**

Every author who has invested weeks into pinning down a stubborn character in their effort to finally get them to the point they need them to be to move the plot along will tell you: The end result you’ve spent months and years of your life picturing doesn’t ever to turn out exactly the way you imagined it. Just like a portrait an artist has spent her entire life slaving away at won’t ever capture the model perfectly as it is, will always hold a little too much of the one wielding the brush to be anything but a reflection of what the model is _to them_.

Sometimes those end results disappoint us.

[Sometimes they take our breath away.]

And so perhaps at some point there comes a time where you, the creator, have to ask yourself: What is it? This great, terrible, unnamed force that leads your stories astray? Reshapes your sculptures right underneath your fingertips? Mixes up your colors unintentionally?

Is it _fate_? Wiggling itself through the subconsciousness of even the most stubborn of creatures?

Is it _coincidence_? A random combination of your surroundings and inner nature, forever unable to predicted with a hundred percent certainty?

Is it your own _will_? Hidden from even your conscious, focused mind, revealing and sharing a bit of yourself with the world, a part you didn’t even realize you have?

Is it something else? A peak behind the curtain of the universe, if only one can be bothered to pick up the clues?

{If it’s the true answer you want, then alright, here it is: Take the answer that comforts you. The one that brings a smile to your lips and tears to your eyes. The one that gives you _faith_. Hold on to that answer with all your strength and then some and _don’t ever let go_.

That, my dear, is the purest truth the world can afford to give you.}

It starts with a plan that is well thought-out and brilliantly executed. A simple, complex, breathtaking row of falling dominos, working their way through generation after generation, uniting cosmic forces as much as they tear them apart. So many options, so many coincidences that are not, cannot be set in stone, yet occur in some shape or form along the way. Contingency after contingency after contingency, plots and sub-plots so closely entwined even He occasionally threatens to lose sight of where it all leads.

[It starts with a spur-of-the-moment inspiration. A wrinkle in the tapestry of the universe He doesn’t bother to smooth out, because why should He? Where would be the fun in that? ~~What will it matter in the end?~~ ]


	3. Parts 6-10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if it was less about the 'Righteous' and more about the 'Man'?

{ _It was all about saving one man_ , they will whisper, accuse, condemn, ridicule, gasp, snarl.

The angel Castiel will face judgment, disgust, confusion, awe, and he will remain untouched, an unmovable stone in the face of their verdict, for he cannot, will not regret what he has done. What he will continue to do.

 ~~Who taught him to value Dean Winchester above all else, do you think?~~ }

**6.**

John Winchester is an observant man. He has to be, to succeed at the kind of job that has higher risks to get yourself killed than being dealing drugs for a cartel in the middle of a territory war.

Thus, John isn’t blind to his son’s talent. Dean, it seems some days, is made for hunting. He takes to shooting and fighting with enthusiastic determination and he’s not half as useless at researching as likes to pretend — has only begun to drag his feet there once Sam’s grown old enough to be involved and determined to be of use, in fact.

But the one quality in which Dean continues to surpass him — and Sam and any of his various hunter contacts — is the way Dean talks to people. John’s never been much of a people person even before— before.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t catch on immediately. Spends a lot of time exasperated with the way Dean continues to sneak away when he should be paying attention, chatting up girls — waiters, librarians, secretaries, nurses. John’s honest enough with himself to admit he’s never looked much beyond that. Well, safe for that talk he had with Dean when he was twelve because the last thing he needed was for Dean to get some girl pregnant.

The first time John _really_ sits up and pays attention, Dean’s a scrappy kid of eighteen with a too-pretty face for John to be entirely comfortable with the looks his son receives sometimes and Sam is back at the motel, pouting about their most recent move. They’ve tracked down a skin-changer who collects his victims and find the most recent four still alive in the monster’s nest. So there they are, stuck in the skin-changer’s nest with four living humans they hadn’t expected, making a plan up as they go along. And even though John easily looks trice Dean’s age and has the experience to back his orders up, it’s to Dean they turn first. It’s Dean who talks the hysterical twenty-year old college student down. It’s Dean who snaps at some guy in his late thirties to shut up and pay attention already. It’s Dean whom they _listen_ to.

After that one time, John can’t stop noticing it. The way Dean calms down witnesses and gently urges family members into revealing more than they realize. The way he puts survivors at ease and fools cops and sourly neighbors.

It’s not a big deal. A damn useful talent, if John’s honest. But.

[There’s a little girl in Iowa, a set of grieving parents in Nebraska, a group of wannabe Goth kids in California, and many blurred faces that John can’t be bothered to remember that look at Dean like he’s their lifeline, their last hope, the only thing real in a world that’s pulled the earth out from under their feet.]

It scares him sometimes, is the thing.

[The way Dean smiles at them, leans down to them, straightens to meet them on even ground, shifts voice and expression and body to adapt to every situation and every audience, not unlike some of the skin-changers they’ve hunted. The realization that Dean’s learned those things through him, because of him, while John was looking elsewhere and Dean had to face teachers, fellow students, suspicious receptionists, cops and worried adults. ~~How sometimes John isn’t sure if he’s dealing with his Dean, the real Dean, or just a reflection Dean shows him because it’s easier that way~~.]

Dean scares him.

**7.**

It’s been a long time since heaven has seen it fit to interfere with hell. Longer still since angels have set foot into this damned sphere of existence, have fought and bled against the evil staining their Father’s creation.

Never in the history of creation as the host remembers it have heaven’s armies moved for the sole purpose of saving a single human soul. Never has one of the damned been returned to the living, pure and human, as though born anew. Never before has a single human’s choice shaken heaven to its core.

Long before he breaks, long before he _refuses_ , Dean Winchester’s name is known to heaven.

[If it was in an angel’s nature to question, they might have asked what it is about Dean Winchester that makes him so special, so deserving of having heaven’s might wielded in his name. Angels, however, are not made to question and so they accept this simple truth — the truth as they understand it — as fact.]

**8.**

She is His last.

For the most part, she keeps that knowledge tucked away, hidden in between the shredded parts of herself, underneath the fracture lines that are still sharp and jagged, still draw blood with every touch, for she is not a knife that blunts with usage. Rather the opposite, actually.

She takes great pride in that fact, for there are few souls that were worth His personal attention and fewer still whom He broke Himself.

Bound on the rack, trapped in endless torment, most souls lose track of the ones who torture them. Of the hand wielding the poison, the flames, the ice. [The _knife_.] Most of them are meaningless. Interchangeable demonic visages, that she struggles to tell apart even now, as she has become one of them. They don’t matter. Not even the pain they inflict does because hell consists of nothing but pain. It is hard to stand out under such circumstances. Hard to be worth of being remembered.

He is. All of hell remembers Him, though the spineless and the weak do their best to pretend otherwise.

She wasn’t His only one, not at any point in time, but she always knew when it was Him. There was no mistaking Him, not down here. [He was and still is the only being she knows that burns brighter than the hellfire surrounding them.] Everything about Him stood out, from the way hell lit up around him to the way he held the knife. The way His hands would tremble sometimes [and that would make it worse, the pain, when careful lines turned into ragged cuts, a sweet, burning pain born of care that reaches deeper than the holiest of water] and remained steady at others. The way He talked — not to her, never to her — but just at her. At anyone, really.

[He was, is the only _real_ she remembers.]

She knows His name, of course. Cannot imagine any world, any circumstance in which she would forget. She doesn’t speak it. Doesn’t think it. Neither does she use any of the silly titles they’ve assigned Him, whichever works best for the current king. They’re fools, all of them are, and one day, when He takes His rightful place, she will be there and she will laugh as they all burn, one traitor after another other.

Until that day comes, she will wait. Patiently. Continue His work, as He once taught her to.

Be just another nameless demon, torture just another meaningless soul on the rack. No one knows her name — not even she herself — and no one ever will. Because she doesn’t climb the latter. Doesn’t play the game. She is exactly where she is meant to be — where He put her — and here she will remain.

Hell doesn’t know her, but it knows Him and she is His.

[She _breaks_ , _crumbles_ , _shatters_ the day He leaves.]

**9.**

Like all members of his garrison, Castiel has prepared himself extensively for their assault on hell’s gates. They are on a holy mission, to save the Righteous Man before he breaks the first seal — and even after — and failure is not an option.

Some of these preparations turn out to be unnecessary. There is no hiding the Righteous Man in hell, for all that the demonic forces try. He stands out among them, a burning light that leads them through an otherwise fathomless darkness. And so, though the demons may fight and weaken them, they can only prolong the battle, only draw out the inevitable.

It is yet another sign that their mission has Father’s blessing, Castiel knows, and welcomes the rare comfort in this tiring time.

When Castiel finally reaches the Righteous Man, he finds him carving into a soul long past the point of saving. He finds him glow all the brighter for his desolate surroundings, covered in ash, grime and blood, his light untouched, undimmed by it all. And Castiel barely notices the desperate demons throwing themselves between him and his charge, is deaf to the horrible shrieks of the soul trapped on the rack.

 ** _Dean Winchester_** , Castiel says, his true voice rippling over and through the layers of hell, and — unthinking of plans and strategies, ignoring Zachariah’s strict orders and Uriel’s warnings — reaches out and _touches_.

**10.**

To break a soul in hell is no challenge.

It is, in many ways, what hell has been made for, what vast armies of demons are created to do. It’s not unheard of, for the older ones to drag the process out, to savor the process, the soul’s ultimately futile fight. As such the amount of time a soul lasts in hell is as much a testament to its assigned torturer as it is a testament to the soul’s strength.

Hell’s chief torturer, the master of the pit, Alastair in particular has mastered this craft and taken it to new, unheard of heights.

Yet even Alastair’s skill has its limits, grounded in hell and all that it carries. Sooner or later — always sooner — every soul breaks. [Yearns to break. Relishes in its own destruction.]

There are no exceptions. Demons, angels, they are not being arrogant when they state this, they are not being presumptuous. More importantly, they are not being facetious. Breaking a soul is not a game of the mind. It’s not about strength of will, not about grounding a soul’s sense of self, sense of right and wrong, of being alive and _human_ into nothingness.

Here, at the core of the worst, the darkest, the most evil of His creations, it’s all about a choice, offered every day to those very few souls with the potential for something more: To take up the knife and torture, carve, cut, break the souls around them or to remain on the rack and suffer the torture themselves. [It’s about so much more than that.]

Because those who take up the knife _break_. It’s not a metaphor. It’s not an ugly mental picture, made to visualize a process beyond human understanding. It’s a simple fact.

A human soul cannot damn another. But what rises from the rack is no human, is no _soul_. It’s the leftovers, torn, tattered, the crippled remains of what was and will never be again. It’s the blackened, shriveled up scraps, barely enough of it left to function, a newborn babe almost, as they grow into something else, something worse.

A process that, once begun, cannot be undone. This is not a wound that can be healed, a crime that can be forgiven. This is the eradication of a human soul, its final destruction, the closest anyone has ever come.

[It should come as no surprise then that it was discovered by Lucifer.]

When Dean Winchester sells his soul in exchange for his brother’s life, there is no doubt where it will lead. When his soul is laid out on the rack, the outcome is a forgone conclusion. All souls break in hell. And so, too, Dean Winchester accepts the knife after thirty years of resistance — longer than hell would’ve given him, longer than heaven expected — and steps off the rack, yields to the inevitability of his fate.

He steps off the rack broken and bleeding, a ruined shell of a human specter. [He steps off the rack a soul, bruised and hurting and _whole_ , broken in every way except the one that truly matters, a dimmed, human shape that lights up hell like a homing beacon, itches and burns in the eyes of the truly damned.]

Heaven weeps and hell rejoices for Dean Winchester’s fate [his choice] shakes hell to its very foundations. Disturbs things that should’ve been left to rest, knocks off-course what should’ve remained untouched, breaks open what should’ve stayed locked up forever.

[The impossibility of a human soul shedding blood in hell is easily overlooked in the face of what is nothing less than the end of the world.]

For Dean Winchester breaks — [ _metaphorically_ , and that is a crime Alastair will not forgive, not Dean and not himself] — and hell breaks with him.


	4. Parts 11-15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zachariah sets more in motion than he realizes.

**11.**

As a public defender, Adriana has met many people from a variety of social backgrounds. In general, her clients can be loosely grouped into four categories: those who have done nothing wrong, those who know they’ve done something wrong and those who are convinced they have done nothing wrong.

Impossibly, Dean Winchester fits into all three of those categories.

"You’re still on that file?" Kendall suddenly says from right behind her, causing Adriana to flinch hard enough to spill her already cold coffee all over her left hand.

"Of course I am."

Kendall sighs, but doesn’t seem surprised.

"Don’t stay too long. You know Welsh doesn’t like the overtime you’re racking up."

Adriana makes a wordless sound of agreement and turns the page. Her new client’s file reads like a badly written script for a B-rated horror flick with a few action-focused sub-plots. What little is known about Winchester’s upbringing amounts to every social worker’s nightmare and things only get worse the older he gets.

In all honesty, Adriana shouldn’t be doing overtime for a case like this. In all likelihood, some big-shot attorney will swoop in and take the case over pro bono. With the kind of media coverage — and thus free advertising — the supposedly dead serial killer generates, it’s only a matter of days, if that.

That’s not the point though. Until Winchester is officially no longer her responsibility, Adriana has a duty to act in her client’s best interest. Which includes gathering all the relevant information and learning everything law enforcement knows about him. Even if it makes her sick.

[The worst part, the thing that makes her feel like she’s going to throw up for real, is that in spite of the pictures of butchered bodies and autopsy reports, despite damning security footage and fingerprints, it’s the contradicting witness reports that continue to draw Adriana’s attention.

It’s the fact that she’s looking for evidence of misconduct, is approaching the information with personal bias, is looking for confirmation instead for answers. Because when Dean Winchester looked her in the eyes and told her he didn’t murder those women, Adriana believed him. ~~She still does~~.]

**12.**

Zachariah takes pride in many things.

[He takes pride in being an angel, one of his Father’s first and purest creations. He takes pride in his position within the host, above the ordinary seraphs. He takes pride in being trusted with a mission of such monumental importance as to bring about the apocalypse and finally give this world the paradise — the peace — they have all been yearning for. He takes pride in the faith his siblings have in him, the faith Michael has in him, for him to be given the responsibility to forge Michael’s sword.]

This is not to say that Zachariah is a prideful creature, for pride is a sin and angels are above such temptations. [There was Lucifer, of course, once their best and brightest, but there are some wounds that reach too deep and need not be picked at.]

Above all else, Zachariah prides himself on being a good son.

He may not care about the humans that Father so adored — simple and useless as they have proven themselves to be time and again — but it was Father’s will to give them paradise and so it shall be done.

Zachariah does not take his task lightly. There is no room for error here, especially not where it concerns Michael’s vessel. The forging of the Michael sword is delicate work that requires careful planning. Nothing can be left to chance. Thank Father Zachariah had the foresight to draw out their battles against hell for longer than even he thought would be necessary. [After all, how much time does it take hell to ruin one measly human or what is left to ruin in any case?]

Castiel is chosen to raise the vessel, to purify his soul of whatever damage hell has done to it, so that there will be nothing to impair Michael’s inevitable return to earth. Castiel has not been chosen randomly. He is obedient, loyal to Father’s Plan like few others are, but he also holds a certain respect for humanity that will aid him in his healing of the human’s soul.

It is for this same reason that Zachariah leaves Castiel and Uriel in charge of guiding Dean Winchester. Castiel will ensure that the human is taken care of until they have need for him — as Uriel will ensure that Castiel’s sentimentality does not lead him astray.

When Dean Winchester proves himself more willful than is desirable, Zachariah is annoyed, but ultimately unimpressed. [Michael’s sword has been forged in hellfire, but the work on it is not yet complete.] Guiding the vessel down the correct path may be more challenging than anticipated, but the effort required is negligible in the grand scheme of things.

And so, one by one, the seals fall.

[Each one a whetstone designed to sharpen the blade. Perfect what the fires of hell have begun.]

Some require more effort than others, as is to be expected. New approaches and creative solutions are needed and though angels are by nature not creative, Zachariah finds enjoyment in this challenge.

"You will follow Dean Winchester’s orders on this one," Zachariah orders once and does not stay to see how his words are received, secure in the knowledge of his brethren’s obedience. He does not witness Uriel’s derision, Castiel’s surprise.

If he had— If he had. He might have noticed the weight of his words. Might have realized their impact, their significance.

[Angels are meant to love humans. To shelter them. To protect and to guide. ~~There is a hierarchy to this love imposed on them by their creator, even if they have not noticed it yet~~. Never has an angel followed a human, bowed to a human, obeyed a human. There is an order to the universe and humans are not, have never been at its top.]

Zachariah sees The Plan, the ultimative goal, and it blinds him to what those lesser than him, those who do not yet know, will see. What his actions imply, what they outright state.

[Zachariah’s greatest sin is pride, for he cannot imagine a world in which a human would ever rank above an angel, not even when he is the one who builds it.]

**13.**

The problem with being human is that humans are convinced they’re at the top of the food chain. And they remain convinced of this fact, right up until you take their very identity from them — and sometimes even after.

The problem with being more than human is that you’re just as likely to fall prey to that hubris. That illusion that you’re invincible and nothing can touch you. Though having a fucking pain in the ass hunter come to your town and butcher half your pack is one hell of a reminder that even they aren’t immortal.

"We should kill them. Kill them both for what they did. Tear them apart, rip out their spleens, their kidneys, their _hearts_." Benji snarls low in his throat.

Asha scoffs.

"Sure, you do that if you’re that eager to meet the maker. Me? I prefer to stay alive."

"You can’t seriously think those hunters are a threat."

Asha shoots Melody a disbelieving stare. "I’m sorry, did you somehow miss the part were they murdered Alpha and the others without batting an eye?"

"We could ambush them." Benji clenches his fists, sneer heavy in his voice. "They’re _hunters_ , how bad can they be?"

She’ll probably have to get rid off him. It’s a shame, Benji’s a great tracker. But there’s risks she’s not willing to take and tangling with hunters — those hunters in particular — is smack on the top of her list of things not to do.

"They’re not just hunters," Asha says all the same. Benji hasn’t just lost Alpha, he’s lost his mate. She can forgive him his irrationality. Once. "They’re _Winchesters_."

"So?" Melody asks. "You don’t really believe that bullshit about them being unkillable, do you?"

"I’ll show them _unkillable_ ," Benji grinds out between bared teeth. "I’ll make it last—"

The last string of Asha’s fraying patience snaps. With a frustrated growl she whirls around and slams Benji against the closest wall by his throat.

"You don’t joke about Winchesters!" she hisses, spittle hitting Benji’s cheek. "John Winchester was bad enough, but he was just a hunter, if a competent, freakishly obsessive one. Those sons of his?" Asha doesn’t have to fake her grimace. "They’re a different weapon altogether."

She leans closer, close enough to entangle her breath with Benji’s, feel his spiky hair brush against her forehead. Smirks viciously. "The older one," she murmurs against his lips, like a secret shared between lovers, "The one who gutted your precious mate like fish, stabbed him in the heart for good measure like it was _nothing_?" Benji jerks and snarls like a mad dog, but Asha’s always been the stronger of the two.

"They say he sold his soul. The hounds of hell ripped him to shreds. And you know what happened?" She tightens her grip, ignores his gasping for air. Chuckles, an empty, loaded sound, like a gun’s safety switched on and off in an endless circle. "Some say that brother of his pulled him back out. Some say he crawled back out himself, carved a hole through hell like it's made of paper and every demon who stood in his way besides. Some say hell itself spat him back out."

"Those- Those are just stories," Melody points out. "Rumors. There’s no way they’re true. You can’t honestly think they’re _true_."

"Doesn’t matter what I think. Doesn’t matter what’s true." Asha shrugs. Throws Benjis down and away from her, leaves him heaving for air on the ground. "All I know is all three Winchesters died, two of them went to hell, and yet hell’s lacking in Winchesters and two of them are walking around playing cops and monsters."

She kicks Benji’s in the side for good measure. "I don’t give a fuck about Alpha or your mate or anyone else. Hunters don’t come back from the dead. They sure as fuck don’t come back from hell. And you don’t fuck with _anything_ that does."

There. Maybe that will get them — Melody, at least — to think. Benji’s probably a lost cause, but he’ll go after the Winchesters. If he kills them, who cares, if they take out her trash, it’s no skin off Asha’s nose either. If Melody joins him, well, Asha’s never been much of a pack person herself. They draw too much attention, particularly the stupid ones.

She’ll be fine on her own. [Far away from any Winchesters and those stupid or dangerous enough to go after them.]

**14.**

"Would you like to say the prayer, Dean?" Pastor Jim asks the boy John has dropped on his door with little to no warning two days ago. It’s not a bother to watch Dean for a few days — the boy is incredibly self-sufficient and takes care of not just himself but little Sam as well without prompting.

"No."

Jim blinks in honest surprise. It’s the first decisive refusal he’s heard from Dean. Not that Dean says much in general. He’s exchanged maybe five sentences with Jim so far and only ever in direct response to a question Jim has asked him. Every other time, he’s simply accepted Jim’s words as orders and complied.

[There’s a peculiar look in Dean’s eyes when he watches his father leave with little more than a 'Take care of Sammy until I’m back' from the man, and Jim wonders when John last looked, really looked it his older son. If maybe he knows what he’ll see if he does and can’t bear it.]

All that considered, Dean’s sharp refusal, so typical for a boy his age, is a relief.

"Why not?" Jim asks all the same, curious what has finally roused the boy.

Dean looks him straight in the eye for the first time since his arrival. His eyes are green and sad and far too old for a child of six. "Praying’s for people too lazy to help themselves. Besides God doesn’t exist anyway."

 _Yes_ , Jim thinks sadly. _Because if he did, he would be just another name in the list of people who have failed and disappointed you, wouldn’t he?_

**15.**

" _It was always you!"_

Even as he shouts the words though, Gabriel knows they are a lie. The rest of heaven may have forgotten the truth, if the murmurs he’s been picking up on the angel antenna are anything to go by, but Gabriel isn’t just any angel. He’s the archangel Gabriel, the Messenger of God, one of the oldest beings in existence.

Heaven may have convinced itself that the Winchester brothers are destiny in persona, that the apocalypse is inevitable [ _they’d be right_ ] and Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man who begins it, is the only one who can finish it [ _a-and right again, only that’s a truth that doesn’t hold up to closer inspection any more than monopoly money would in a supermarket, good times—_ ], but. It’s not straight-forward like that. Destiny never is.

[Now though. Now too many things have been set into motion, the final phase has begun and you can’t undo that, can’t pause the avalanche, can’t die and restart the game. The apocalypse doesn’t come with a rewind button. Heaven may have messed with things it shouldn’t have, but even a broken clock is right twice a day, isn’t that how the saying goes?]

But Gabriel has spent the last several thousand years on Earth, mingling among the best and brightest and worst and shoddiest versions of Daddy’s favorite kids. He’s seen mothers murder their own children, grown men and women destroy heart, spirit and soul of their own kind — has witnessed strangers sacrifice themselves so that another may live, watched little boys and girls defend their siblings to the death.

The truth is, for every irredeemable scumbag Loki takes his frustration out on, he runs into another soul just as dark, just as broken that manages to surprise him. [That’s the thing about humans, you see. The real difference between angels and demons and humans. Angels are holy and demons are evil and neither one is an accomplishment. Those are facts. But humans. Humans make new choices every day, every hour, every minute of their lives. Humans don’t stop changing, can’t stop, wouldn’t know where to begin.]

It’s been centuries and Gabriel still finds himself caught off guard by them. Spur-of-the-moment decisions, unexpected kindness, solidarity that, by all rights and reason, is born out of _nothing_. Humans tumble over these spectacular, foreign concepts with impossible regularity, made all the more astonishing by their utter lack of real understanding of the world around them.

It’s _bizarre_.

And if Gabriel hasn’t managed to understand and predict humanity yet, after all his time here on earth, what hope does the rest of the Host have to make two of humanity’s most stubborn specimen dance to their tune?

That’s a rhetorical question. At least it should’ve been. Despite humanity’s astonishing capacities — it’s terrible flaws — despite _Free Will_ and all it entails, humans are so ridiculously fragile. Breaking them is a matter of moments, if you were to put your mind to it.

[Gabriel was there when Lucifer broke his first human. Father knows, he wishes with all his might he could forget, but he hasn’t. He never will. Gabriel has seen how humans fall long before he’s ever seen them rise.]

All else aside, Sam and Dean Winchester are unforgivingly _human_. Their free will is a nice touch, but it means nothing if Heaven tires of waiting for a catastrophe it can’t escape. There’s ways of breaking vessels that no human can withstand. Sooner or later, the Host will decide that cost — payed by Dean and Sam Winchester — will be worth the paradise waiting at the end of this mess. The sad thing is, they may even believe that.

So no. Team Free Will doesn’t stand a chance. Never has. That much Gabriel knows, even if the kiddies in front of him haven’t realized it yet.

Dean Winchester meets his eyes, hazel brightened by the blinding light of his soul — _Father, you really outdid yourself with this Righteous one, didn’t you?_ and _Damn, did little Castiel do a great job of putting those shredded leftovers back together, what are they teaching kids these days, I can’t even see the tears_ — gaze searing and tearing through Gabriel’s grace, words cutting through his bluster like only a fellow bullshitter can.

And Gabriel knows better than to bet on an underdog so ridiculously outclassed no comparisons come to mind. Knows better than to throw in his lot with humanity in a fight where they aren’t even a side, can’t hope to amount to more than collateral damage. Knows better than to think that Dean Winchester, the Michael’s Sword, the Righteous Man who held on longer than anyone expected, could somehow fix this mess his Father’s Plan has led to.

[He still broke in the end.]

If anything, the sight of his Father’s Righteous Man, here, now, so close to the end, should reaffirm Gabriel’s faith in The Plan, the Host, his brothers and sisters. _And yet_.

" _This isn’t about some prized fight between your brothers! Or some destiny that can’t be stopped!"_

Dean Winchester’s soul burns bright, too bright, bright enough to hurt and, for a single moment, Gabriel can almost make himself believe.

[Gabriel lost faith in _HeavenThePlan_ ** _his Father_** a long time ago.]


	5. Parts 16-20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before Hell, before angels walk the earth again and the final days of humanity loom ever closer, Missouri tells an old friend the truth. And John Winchester chooses.

**16.**

"Your son is walking a dangerous line," Missouri states after the boys have left, a psychic’s finality ringing in her voice.

John trusts the woman as much as he trusts anyone — particularly anyone _other_ , though that’s not a distinction he likes to be reminded of, even with her — that isn’t blood, but mentioning his kids is the surest way to raise his hackles. This time is no different.

"Sam’s a good kid," John snaps, sharper than the comment deserved, but no less convinced for it. It’s a truth he believes with all his heart because he has to, because the alternative is untenable.

From the long, judging stare Missouri bestows upon him, she knows it as well. Knows that, more than anything, his fervor is driven by fear — the fear that she’ll disagree. The fear that she’ll have seen something that John, for all the time he’s spent hardening his heart against the cruelty of the world, has missed.

She doesn’t, of course, because for every truth Missouri has told her clients, John has never known her to tell the entire truth.

"I’m not talking about the younger one," Missouri corrects with a curl of her lips. She’s never called Sam his youngest and though it’s not a topic they have ever discussed, John has no illusions — Missouri knows about Adam. She knows and she disagrees with the way he’s handled the situation. Not a surprise there. It’s no rarity for others in general and Missouri in particular to disagree with the way John deals with his children.

"Dean?" John barks an incredulous laugh. "The boy may loose too much sense when faced with a pretty girl, but he’s never been afraid of doing what needs getting done. Got a good head on his shoulders, for all he likes to pretend otherwise."

Missouri doesn’t smile. Her eyes, when they lock with John’s, are dark. "He’s your legacy." It’s not an accusation, not the way Bobby’s insults were, but the words of his old friend hit all the deeper for it. "It can’t stay that way forever. You’ll have to choose what you want, John, a son or a weapon. You can’t have both."

John’s hands clench around his cup. "I didn’t come here for another lecture on how to raise my boys."

"No, you came to one of the few people you trust to beat the truth into your thick skull, whether you like it or not," Missouri snarks back. "And I’m telling you, keep the way you’ve been going about it, and you’re gonna lose that boy. Children outgrow their parents."

John grits his teeth. Wonders if perhaps Dean’s gonna get reckless — or maybe get tired of the dirty, thankless life of a hunter eventually. Sam certainly did. But they all saw how that ended, didn’t they?

"I’m so damn close," he mutters eventually. He knows he is. It’s not just the signs and the omens — he can _feel_ it in his blood. One way or another, he’ll catch up with Yellow Eyes soon. "We’ll never be free as long as that demon runs free. Once that’s done—" John closes his eyes, misses the shuttered grief in Missouri’s expression before she locks it down. "Once it’s done, they’ll be free to be who they want to be, live however the fuck they want."

"Mind your mouth," Missouri scolds because _your vengeance will cost you your sons and will cost them far more_ is — like so many truths — not one John Winchester is ready to hear.

Still. An aging psychic with too many secrets not her own to keep might be forgiven for giving one last warning to a good friend, however futile it may be. "But when the time comes, choose wisely, John. When your son crosses the line, there’ll be no going back for him. He’ll be lost to you forever — and eternity is a long time to regret your decision."

**17.**

Jun — whose full name is Kim-Jun, but since her sister’s name is Kim-Bao, she usually goes by Jun to avoid confusion; even though her teachers keep pronouncing it 'June', which is seriously annoying — curls further into her twin’s side. Kim — who goes by Kim because 'Bao' is apparently not an appropriately girlish name and she got tired of being asked whether she was a boy or girl, which — it should be said — hasn’t actually improved with the name Kim, but whatever, Jun won’t argue with her on that topic — digs her nails painfully deep into Jun's side, but that’s alright.

Kim’s allowed to be scared. Jun’s scared too.

It’s cold and wet and way too dark to figure out how to get out of this creepy place. Jun’s already scraped her palms and knees bloody on the rough stone, desperately trying to find the exit, before she’d stumbled upon Kim.

They’re supposed to be at home, celebrating the New Year. Mom’s been in the kitchen all day yesterday in preparation and Kim was supposed to just make a quick run to the supermarket. She was supposed to come back, not disappear like the other kids in the newspapers.

And when Mr. Dean had shown up with his huge partner and asked lots of serious questions, Jun had known that whatever happened to those kids that Mom and Dad didn’t talk about and refused to let her read, it was _bad_.

Jun shouldn’t have gone out. She should’ve stayed home. Mr. Dean had told her so. Told her that sometimes bad things liked siblings and that she needed to take care of herself because that was the best thing she could do for Kim right now. He’d been serious, the way grown-ups always are when they think they know best.

But Mr. Dean doesn’t know Kim like Jun does — no one does, they’re _twins_ and that’s something most people just don’t get, no matter how often they try to explain it — and Jun had to find Kim.

And she did.

Now they just have to be found. Before the evil bad man with the glowing eyes comes back. Jun doesn’t like him and she doesn’t want to find out what happened to the other kids. She wants to kick him in the balls until he cries fat, ugly tears like Gavin Quincey from two blocks down, but Jun also just wants Mr. Dean to find them because the evil bad man is strong and smells terrible and he scares her.

Kim’s cheeks are wet with tears — again — even though she makes no sound. Jun can feel her trembling. She tightens her hold and prays for Mr. Dean to find them soon.

Because he’ll find them. He _promised_.

**18.**

"I don’t get it," Dean blurts out.

Sam manfully resists the urge to facepalm. Barely. Honestly, the poor kid — and, really, Eva-Lisa is seventeen, it’s not hypocritical when he thinks of her as a kid, even if Dean still lives in some weird fantasy world where Sam is forever stuck as a chubby twelve year old — is right in the middle of a sexuality crisis and well on her way to a full mental breakdown and _that’s_ what his brother has to say to her?

"W-What?" Eva-Lisa stutters, perhaps taken off-guard enough to be shocked out of her hysterics. For the moment at least.

Sam carefully hides a wince at that thought. There’s not a lot he’s thankful for regarding the way his father raised him, but despite his firm belief in God, Sam’s grateful for the lack of bible-thumping in his life. And no, reciting prayers to make holy water and exorcise a demon — seriously, where do they all keep coming from? — doesn’t count.

[Not that Sam didn’t have his own preconceived notions when it came to gender and sexuality, that much had become obvious when he’d started dating the very liberal Jess. In fact, if she’d lived, Sam would be willing to bet their entire stack of false credit cards that Jess would have called the hunter community — and Dean in particular — toxic masculinity personified. For all that women like Ellen and Jo kicked ass, they had to earn that respect. Most hunters weren’t the open-minded type in _many_ ways.]

Dean shrugs. He’s as irreverent and careless as always, never mind that he’s talking to a preacher’s daughter who’s spent her entire life sheltered in her religious community. No matter how often it makes Sam want to punch him, he admires that disregard for any and all higher powers about his brother. Doesn’t understand it, but then, there’s lots of things he doesn’t understand about Dean.

"Well, if God creates everyone, doesn’t that mean you’re exactly the way he meant for you to be?" Dean asks without looking up from where he’s carefully examining what looks like no kind of footprint Sam has ever seen. "And if he doesn’t like the way you turned out, doesn’t like the person you grow into?" Dean says slowly, raises his head to hit poor Eva-Lisa with the full force of his brightest Believe-Every-Word-Because-I-Damn-Well-Mean-It-Stare. " _Fuck_ him."

This time Sam does, in fact, facepalm.

" _Dean_."

"What?!"

**19.**

Somewhere inside the chaotic maelstrom of pain, disappointment, _agony_ , a thought crystallizes deep within them. An understanding. A revelation.

 _Dean Winchester must die_.

In truth, they should not have broken free of their bindings. That they do all the same, then, is only more evidence for the righteousness of their cause. Nothing in this beautiful, terrible world happens without Father’s approval and so this, too, must have always been part of the plan.

Nevertheless, they feel the urgency twisting and curling within their grace. It has been long, too long, too much damage has already been done. For the first time in their memory, their thoughts are clear. For the first time, they _see_.

The apocalypse is a red herring, a means to an end, as much as any other End of World story ever fabricated. The true danger lies not in Zacharias, blinded by pride and arrogance, nor in Michael and Lucifer, Heaven’s strongest and brightest, who still uphold an image that has long lost all its holy shine. At the center of the entire, wretched mess lies a man with more power and influence than any single being — never mind a human — should hold: the power to break Hell open. [The power to bring Heaven to its knees.]

This is a disturbance, an imbalance that threatens to destabilize the entire universe. It needs to be corrected before it's too late.

 _Dean Winchester must die_.

["Anna?" Dean Winchester asks incredulously, but Anael doesn’t hear. All they sees, all they will ever see, is the bright glow of his soul — brighter even than the flames of the strongest, most fierce archangel Heaven knows.

"Don’t you _see_?" they want to ask, but God’s hammer has long made his choice, and the flames burn bright enough to consume everything Anael is, was, could have been.]

**20.**

"Take care of your brother, Dean," John rasps. He’s almost out of time, but he needs to say this. Needs his son to understand.

"You have to save him from himself. If anyone can it’s you. And if you can’t—"

"Dad—" Dean tries to interrupt, worry and fear in his far too expressive eyes. John, though, is having none of it.

"Listen to me!" He grabs hold of his son’s shoulders, forces him to meet his burning gaze. "If you can’t save Sam, you have to kill him. You have to, Dean. That’s an _order_ , do you understand?"

Dean stares back, wide-eyed and horrified. "Yes, sir," he says and John is too relieved to hear the lie in his voice.


End file.
